


To Be A Father

by foxdeer



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Father-Son Relationship, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Little Legolas, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Physical Abuse, Please Don't Hate Me, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Young Bard, Young Legolas Greenleaf, Young Thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxdeer/pseuds/foxdeer
Summary: Oropher is sick of Thranduil’s continuous defiance of his curfew and his childish attitude, so he plans to teach him a lesson.Years later, Thranduil is worried that he will parent Legolas the same way his father brought him up and disciplined him. Bard tries to alleviate his worries.





	1. Oropher.

**Author's Note:**

> !!! TRIGGER WARNING !!!
> 
> Within this story there will be uncomfortable graphic depictions of violence and humiliation. It is possibly the darkest story I have ever written. There will be references to flashbacks of past abusive experiences, in particular for Thranduil in the first chapter. There will be further flashbacks due to Thranduil’s PTSD in later chapters. 
> 
> Within this first chapter, Thranduil is eighteen years old despite the fact Oropher refers to him as a ‘child’ regularly. The use of these terms are for language purposes only. For reference, Bard is also eighteen. There are homophobic undercurrents in this story through Oropher’s prejudices.
> 
> Please only read this if you feel comfortable. If you have any further questions before reading or you would like any information on plot / potential triggers, please message me. I have tried my hardest to put appropriate warnings on this work, but I understand that sometimes things I don’t think are that triggering can be to others. If you find this is the case, please let me know.
> 
> Thanks and enjoy!

_Tick, tick, tick…_

Oropher sat in a dead silence broken only by the monotonous ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece. The fire was burning low, only a dull glow of reddish orange embers, but he did not have the heart to replace with any further kindle to keep the flame going. If anything, the fire did not need the last round of wood he had placed in the grate. He should have retired to bed hours ago, yet instead he found himself consumed in a thought in his mind, the anger and frustration building with every tick of that clock and every second that his son stayed out beyond his curfew of midnight. 

From where he was sat on a dull, grey leather Chesterfield sofa, he could see the large oak front door to their house, and subsequently the sweeping staircase that his son would attempt to sneak up later to pretend he had not defied his father yet again. Oropher had sent his wife to bed early. He had promised that he would follow not too far behind, but… see… there had been a lot that had happened recently with Thranduil… things that Oropher was desperate to confront his son about, and his reckless teenage partying was only one bulletpoint on his long list of grievances. He swivelled the glass on brandy in his hand, downing it with a hiss as it burned his throat, and glanced again at the clock.

_3:48am_

Where was this child of his? Eru, he had best hope the Valar would be looking down on him when he walked through that door. 

Oropher was tempted to turn on the TV to waste the idle time that soldiered on whilst Thranduil disobeyed him, however he rather enjoyed revelling in daydreams of what he would say when his son decided to return home, and how best he would punish him for his insolence. The scenes changed every time. Sometimes Thranduil was full of angst, stubborn, childish in his antagonistic responses. Others, he simply begged for his father’s forgiveness, promising that he would never be so thoroughly disobedient again and apologising for the fact he had disappointed his wonderful father, who he admired intensely. At one point, Oropher had thought he had heard the door click around two in the morning, and the scenes had become full of an apologetic Thranduil at his father’s murderous rage.

Where had he gone wrong? What had gotten into his son recently? Oropher had never defied his own father in such a way – well, he would have never have gotten away with it. The problem, he mused, was that Thranduil had been completely _spoilt_ by his parents, and in turn he had chosen to take liberties where they had not been offered or agreed. 

First, they had been called into Thranduil’s school. The Lindon Academy was a prestigious institution of education – one of the finest that money could buy – set upon acres of protected land, the fine stone buildings reflected the regal and upper-class nature of it’s students. It was an all-boys school, as Oropher had preferred to remove the distraction of girls from his son’s ever-growing interest, and it focussed upon producing successful and ambitious individuals. Oropher was livid when he had received the call to attend the school and speak with Thranduil’s form tutor.

He could remember the way the old tutor had offered his hand to shake, gesturing for Oropher and his wife to take a seat, arranging his long black robes before sitting behind his desk and pulling papers from a blue file. He had cleared his throat with a cough, flourishing a few papers in front of Oropher marked with the letters ‘F’ in red ink across each of them.

“I am afraid your son is failing a fair few of his classes,” the form tutor spoke, continuing to pull papers from the file. “I can’t imagine where this change has come from. Thranduil is usually the most studious of pupils, and it is rare for him to produce such poor work.”

Oropher had never felt shame like it. In fact, he could remember the myriad of emotions, and none of them were positive. The sheer embarrassment and humiliation that his son’s disregard for a very expensive and privileged education was being destroyed, and for what? 

“This is unlike Thranduil,” his wife had said, perusing the papers. “He has hardly written on this examination.”

The form tutor emitted a hum of agreement. “He is an intelligent boy – capable of doing well. Perhaps it would be prudent to have a word with him over this? I have tried myself, but he is unable to give me an answer for his recent performance.”

Oropher had felt his blood boil, surging around his body like a wild, white heat. Oh, he had vowed to have more than ‘a word’ with Thranduil when he returned home. He had sworn he would make the boy wish he’d never been born. With a firm nod, he stood from his chair.

“We will speak to him,” Oropher had replied with a level tone. “Make no mistake.”

They had left the form tutor’s office speedily, walking briskly to Oropher’s prized black Range Rover. Although his face had remained impassive and cool in outward appearance to the employees of The Lindon Academy, internally Oropher was raging. His wife said nothing – perhaps she could feel the sizzling waves of his humiliation and fury that seemed to pour out of his very skin. Similar to the current situation as he waited for Thranduil to return home, he had indulged in a mixture of scenarios in his mind’s eye for what he would say and do to his son when they reached home.

In the present, Oropher poured himself another brandy. Oh yes, he could remember Thranduil’s reaction alright. Oropher had pulled into the long gravel driveway of their house, coming to an erratic stop in front of the large fountain in their courtyard. He cut the engine, his hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to maintain a hold of his own boiling temper.

“Please,” his wife had said softly, “don’t be too hard on him.”

Oropher had not listened.

He had exited the Range Rover with a slam of the door, entering into his own house with wild abandon, climbing the stairs two at a time to the bedroom of his only child. He entered the room without knocking, and there on his own Queen-sized bed, laid his son playing on his Playstation. At the sudden entry to the large room, Thranduil had sat up, his long white-blonde hair spilling around his shoulders. He could read the fury in his father’s face – no, Oropher was certain he could not just _see_ he could feel it too. 

“Adar?”

Oh how he had tried to win over his father with those bright blue eyes and that innocent tone, as if Oropher was naïve to the child’s brazen ways of wrapping his father around his little finger. In an instant, Oropher had unplugged his video game, and Thranduil had broken his attempt at playing the innocent.

“Hey!” he called, scrambling off his bed, “I was playing that.”

But Oropher turned in a blaze of anger, flourishing the cable to Thranduil’s PlayStation in his face. He stalked up to his son, towering over him, standing more than a head height above. Thranduil was a tall teen, but he was no match for his father. However, despite his father’s rage, he did not cower away when Oropher’s face got so close to his they were almost touching.

In a fierce whisper, he spat. “Until your grades improve, you will not see this again. The shame and embarrassment you have brought upon me is despicable. How dare you do this? Do you not know the humiliation I have suffered listening to your form tutor tell me that you are a worthless, brainless, failing student?”

Thranduil said nothing, just stared into the middle distance, his eyes glazed and his breathing steady. Oropher jerked him roughly by the bicep. His son’s steady gaze faltered, flickering to the grip on his arm. In anger, he squeezed hard as if trying to instil some sense in his son.

“If you ever embarrass me like this again, you will be sorry,” Oropher threatened, his voice cold. 

“I’m sorry, Adar,” came the small reply, his son’s face now concerned by the tightening grip on his arm.

“I want improvement within the week,” Oropher told him, shoving Thranduil as he let go of his bicep. “I want you to bring home your work and show me.”

Thranduil had nodded his beautiful blonde head, a unconscious hand moving to his arm in a way of gaining some relief from his father’s clutch. Oropher could see his eyes were beginning to swim with tears, but it did nothing to stop the rage in his heart. His only child – what had he become? Where did he go wrong?

_4:01am_

With another sigh, Oropher downed his brandy. His eyes were beginning to prick from tiredness, but he would not give in now. He wanted to record the very time his child decided to step over that threshold, and he wanted to thoroughly punish him for it. The fire had completely extinguished by now, and Oropher lounged alone in the moonlight for a while before flicking on a nearby lamp. The orange glow did nothing to warm the cold silence of the room. The ticking of the clock remained. If Oropher really strained his hearing, he could even make out the faint trickle of the fountain in the courtyard.

He pushed a hand through his dark silver hair. He blamed Thranduil for the shift in his hair colour. Before all of this it had been a lovely shade of light silver-blonde – admittedly not the stunning platinum of his son – only he alone had been gifted with that and Oropher loved to brag about it. Thranduil was a beautiful child. Age was only improving that. His childlike chubby cheeks were becoming more angular and masculine by the day, however his eyes still maintained that wonderful sparkle of an ice-blue glow. His skin was pale, smooth, blemish-free. In fact, were it not for the recent change in his son, he would have proudly bragged about his gorgeous, perfect child. Given his beauty, Oropher was excited to see what offspring he would produce. No doubt they would be equally as stunning.

If only this terrible change in his son had not occurred. His attitude was ugly enough to tarnish him.

Oh. That attitude. When he had been younger, Thranduil’s stubborn outbursts had been cute and endearing. Of course his father and mother would bend to his will. He was adorable in his uncontrolled minute rage. Yet that feistiness had resurfaced all these years later, and Oropher no longer found his son’s imprudent attitude to be as endearing as before. He poured himself another brandy, looking back to the ticking clock.

One evening, Thranduil had entered their dining room in a terrible mood. His mother had spent hours cooking a extensive dinner. She had uncorked some wonderfully expensive wine – a red, Oropher’s favourite no less - and she happily poured two glasses for them both. To Oropher’s surprise, the grumpy face of his son, which was most unflattering, slumped into his seat, grabbed his own glass and proffered it to his mother. 

“You are not old enough to drink alcohol,” she told him sweetly. She was always too soft with him. “One day, when you are older.”

“I am older now,” Thranduil retorted smartly, his wine glass still held aloft awaiting his drink. 

“You are not old _enough_.”

“Then why did you even put a wine glass out for me?” he snapped.

Sighing, Thranduil slammed his glass back upon the wooden table. A small crack formed by the base of the stem. Exasperated, he grabbed a tumbler and hurried to the kitchen. In his absence, Oropher felt his fuse begin to burn. This had not been the first time he had spoken to his mother in such a manner, and it was not acceptable. Perhaps when he had been a toddler they would have humoured him, but he was almost a grown adult, and his teenage rage was met with Oropher’s shortening fuse.

With a glass of water, Thranduil slumped back into the dining room. He flopped heavily into his chair, not even stopping to toast or say grace to the Valar or thanks to his mother for the food. Without a second thought, he tucked into his dinner unaware that both of his parents were staring at him in horror, and particularly unaware of Oropher’s building frustration. 

His tone deadly calm, Oropher asserted: “You will apologise to your mother.”

Thranduil looked up from his plate but he did not to stop eating. “What for? I did not insult her. I merely stated that if I am not allowed wine, do not serve me a glass.”

His wife, who was always attuned to his short temper, placed a hand on top of his. Despite her comforting touch, it did nothing to calm him. The sheer brashness of his child was shocking sometimes. He had not raised his child to behave in such an abhorrent manner. To think! People who did not know Thranduil thought he was a beautiful young man, and yet all Oropher saw in that moment was an ugly child. 

“Oropher…” she warned softly. “Let it be.”

But the quirk of Thranduil’s dark eyebrow was like a challenge, as though he had flicked a switch on his father’s fuse box. How dare he continue to eat without saying grace, without an apology to his mother for his disobedience? He did not thank his father for putting this food on the table! No! All his horrid son did was act entitled and spoiled. He would teach him a lesson for his graceless behaviour.

In a flash, Oropher had seized Thranduil’s discarded wine glass. Thranduil’s eyes followed his father’s action as he poured a large amount of the red wine to the brim of the glass. For a second he stopped eating, his eyes flickering with curiosity at the fact that Oropher was giving him exactly what he wanted. The triumph that his son must have felt at that moment. Oh, how Oropher would teach him a lesson. 

Slowly, Oropher carefully picked up the wine glass. It was almost overflowing as he walked over to his son and came to stand behind him. Thranduil tensed, his body sitting straighter in his chair. 

“If you want to taste so badly,” Oropher began calmly, though his insides raged with fury at his despicable son. “You are welcome to try it.”

With a sharp jolt, Oropher grabbed the platinum strands of his son’s hair, pulling his head back so that it collided with the back of the chair. Thranduil let out a small squeak, his mouth open in shock, and so Oropher took his opportunity and poured the large quantity of alcohol into the open mouth of his son. Thranduil coughed and spluttered, struggling to swallow the sheer amount of wine, his hands gripped with white knuckles to the armrests of his chair. Most of it spilled from his mouth in bright red dribbles, flowing onto his cream shirt and down to his jeans. When the glass was empty, Oropher pushed his son’s beautiful head forward placing the glass gently back on the table and resuming his seat opposite Thranduil, as he spat the alcohol all over his diligently-prepared dinner.

“Get out of my sight,” he told him firmly, and Thranduil took no convincing to leave the room in a hurry. 

The attitude had not ceased after that night, but his son was certainly more cautious and gracious around his father from then on. He insisted on staying out late into the night, partying wherever he could. Where had he gone wrong with Thranduil? He had always been a polite and studious child. Dare he think that perhaps he had been influenced by someone improper at his school? Or maybe he had oft forgotten that his parents were not his enemy, and that in fact, they set the rules to keep him safe and to see him prosper. What use did he have of alcohol at such an age?

_4:29am_

Lost in his thoughts, Oropher almost missed the sound of a car pulling into his gravel driveway. In an instant, he stood at the drawing room window, moving the heavy red velvet curtain so he could peer outside as his son finally decided to return home. He stood as still as a statue, his hot, angered breath threatened to blur the glass with condensation. Steadily, what Oropher would only describe as a tin rust-bucket that he wouldn’t have driven even if he were poor, trundled up his driveway and pulled to a stop by the fountain. 

The driver got out of the vehicle. A young boy. Scraggly brown hair, that was messy and cut unevenly to just above his shoulders, a scruffy leather jacket and torn ill-fitting dark jeans. He meandered round the car to the passenger side, opening it gently. When Oropher finally saw Thranduil, the fire of all of his rage was a screaming furnace in his head. He observed as Thranduil exited the car, smiling with his perfectly even white teeth, gratefully thanking the scruffy person who had driven him home at such an ungodly hour. His long blonde hair fell smooth and sleek in comparison to the unkempt boy who had driven him home in the ugly rusty car. Thranduil was dressed solely in black – black Armani t-shirt, black Gucci jeans, black Prada shoes – in all his finery he glowed in the moonlight. He practically shone opposite the untidy boy.

Oropher was ready for his son to turn around and climb the steps to his home. His body thrummed in anticipation. Thranduil was lazily smiling now – grinning, in fact – unaware of the oncoming lesson he was going to be taught regarding breaking his curfew. Oh, how Oropher was going to enjoy wiping that smug grin from his disobedient child’s face. This was really the defiance of all previous behaviours. This would be the one that he would never want to repeat.

Yet, as Oropher watched, his son did not so quickly turn and enter his home. Instead he stayed speaking with his driver for a while. Every tick of the clock added another minute, and fuelled Oropher’s fury even further. He was patient. He could wait. Let him think he has gotten away with it, he thought maliciously, then we shall see how quickly he will regret his plans to stay out quite so late. 

Then, the scruffy boy was brandishing his keys, a sure sign that he was about to leave. He could read that Thranduil had said his thanks, and closed the door to the rust bucket himself, standing overly close to the driver. Oropher did not look away. His glare was so intense, he was surprised that Thranduil had not noticed it burning his skin. He observed as the scraggly boy lifted his hand, gently brushing a tendril of Thranduil’s glorious hair behind his delicately pointed ear. Oropher felt his blood boil. How dare he touch his son in such a manner? Had no one taught him that he should not touch the things he could not afford? 

However Thranduil blushed, his bright eyes locked on the peasant in front of him, and slowly Oropher watched as his son leant forward to lightly press a kiss to the scraggly boy’s lips…

At once it was like his temper had ignited. Oh Oropher would forgive an hour late. He would have perhaps forgiven one alcoholic drink, a cigarette or even a missed bus home, but he would not forgive this. He would not stand to see his son deprave himself in such an ungodly fashion. In an instant he had stormed across the drawing room, through to the hallway, his footsteps heavy on the marbled floor. His hand, shaking with pent-up anger, yanked open the large oak front door to his precious, lavish house. 

At the sight of his father’s figure in the doorway, Thranduil jumped apart from the boy as though electrified. His eyes, once beautiful, were alive with horror. Oropher descended the steps to his home like a lion untamed, ferociously stalking across to where his son now stood, his arms outstretched towards him in surrender.

“Adar, please – no –“ he begged, but Oropher’s eyes were fixed on the boy who had defiled his son. 

Seeing red, he grabbed viciously at one of Thranduil’s outstretched arms, hurling him furiously towards the house. Ungraciously, Thranduil fell to the floor, his hands and knees scraped on the gravel.

“Get inside,” he told him, his voice low and dangerous.

The scruffy boy had stepped forward, attempting to help Thranduil to his feet but Oropher came between them.

“If you come near my son again,” he spat in the face of the boy, “I will see to it that your life is ruined. You depraved, disgusting peasant. Get out of here! Go!”

But the boy did not move despite his angry threats. Instead he looked at his son as Thranduil clambered to his unsteady feet, tears streaming down his pale face. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. The way he looked through Oropher as though he was not there sent him into an even further rage. “Thran, are you hurt? You don’t have to put up with this –“

In a swift movement, Oropher caught the scruffy boy by the collar of his jacket, pulling him up uncomfortably from the ground. The boy finally saw him then alright, his hazel eyes were stunned like a deer trapped in the headlights of his own rust bucket car.

“Get. Off. Of. My. Property.”

With a shove he pushed the boy to the floor of his courtyard, turning quickly on his heel and grasping Thranduil by the back of the neck and guiding him awkwardly up the steps and into the house. 

“Thran!”

The oak door closed with a slam. It rang through the silence of the house, blocking out the shouts of the disgusting boy outside. Where had he gone wrong with Thranduil? He was so thoroughly defiant of his family and all his father had done for him and given him! Oropher would not be repaid for his hard work like this! His son was a sobbing wreck. A debauched, stained sobbing child.

At the top of the stairs, his wife observed in horror, wrapped in a periwinkle blue dressing gown. Her blonde hair was folded delicately in a long braid which hung across her left shoulder. 

“Oropher, what is this?”

“Return to bed, my love,” he told her softly. His grip remained tight at the nape of his son’s neck. “I have to clean Thranduil up.” 

“Nana – please!” 

Oropher jerked him harshly. “Perhaps you should be apologising to your mother for waking her at four in the morning for your ridiculous escapades.”

“I’m – I’m sorry,” he spluttered, the tears falling. “Adar – I’m sorry- please – stop –“

“Return to bed,” Oropher told her.

Whether she returned or not, Oropher did not mind. He had to clean the dirt from his son, attempt to absolve him for his sins. Perhaps this would finally get him to obey his parents once and for all. Roughly he dragged Thranduil across the marble entrance hall, down a corridor, through the cavernous kitchen, another hallway, and into the downstairs bathroom. Pushing him inside, he finally let go of his son, who fell forwards haphazardly landing in a heap on the black tiled floor. 

Oropher locked the door behind him, though he need not have. His sheer ferocity kept his son firmly in his place on the floor. How ironic that now he was finally displaying obedience. His son’s breaths were coming in choppy starts and stops. Those icy blue eyes looked up at him pleadingly. 

“Adar, please,” he hiccuped. “I’m so sorry.”

“Maybe this will teach you to finally obey me,” Oropher grumbled, grabbing a bar of soap from the sink and foaming it under a running tap. Satisfied that it was bubbled enough, he dropped to the floor beside his son, who eyed the soap wearily. “Open your mouth.”

Suddenly realising what Oropher intended to do, Thranduil instinctively clamped his lips together, turning his face away from his father. However Oropher was at his wit’s end with Thranduil’s disobedience, and he would not take it now. Roughly, he pulled his son’s face towards him, pushing the soap furiously against his tight lips. Despite his efforts Thranduil continued to defy him, therefore fuelled by his explosive temper, Oropher got nastier and clamped his hand over his son’s nose tightly. For a while Thranduil struggled and lasted without oxygen, before he eventually gave up and opened his mouth wide in a gasp for precious air. 

In an instant the bar of soap was firmly shoved into his son’s mouth. Thranduil gagged and choked, his nails clawing at his father’s hand that held the bar of soap, whilst the other held his head in place. After a minute or so, Oropher was satisfied that he had cleaned away the stain of the poor, bedraggled brunette boy from his son’s lips. He got up from the floor leaving Thranduil hunched over and retching, placing the bar of soap back where he found it. 

“I’m sorry, Adar,” Thranduil whispered from the floor. “Please – I didn’t mean to-“

“Do not lie to me,” Oropher snapped, glancing at his defiled son. “You meant to do exactly this. I give you boundaries for a reason – to keep you safe, to see you do well – and time and time again you are an insufferably rude, disobedient little child.”

“Adar – please –“

“Did he touch you anywhere else?” Oropher asked coolly, turning on the antique gold taps to a glorious roll-top bath. He added some lavender scented bubble bath for good measure.

“Adar – I’m sorry –“

Fed up of his son’s intentional defiance, Oropher went back to Thranduil and pulled at his black t-shirt. Aware of what Oropher intended to do, Thranduil struggled against him, trying his best to remain covered. His actions essentially confirmed to Oropher that he had been tarnished beyond recognition by a foul little peasant no less.

“Adar – stop! I can do this myself! Please!”

The insolence of his son was driving him mad. Violently, he ripped the shirt over Thranduil’s head. Clambering to his feet, Thranduil pushed past his father, rushing to the door and attempting to unlock it. But Oropher was faster. He grabbed him forcibly by the waist, unlatching the button on his son’s Gucci jeans and ungraciously pulling both the jeans and his black Calvin Klein boxers down in quick succession. Thranduil froze. From where Oropher stood, he could see the white stain of cum that had clearly dripped from his son’s asshole. So this was why he had waited until four in the morning.

“All of these expensive clothes and you are nothing but a depraved, cheap whore,” Oropher hissed. “Where did I go wrong with you? You are disgusting.”

Viciously, he hooked a hand under Thranduil’s armpit, pulling him harshly towards the bath and pushing him into the tub. The water sloshed all over the place. Thranduil remained silent, his jeans and underwear still slung around his knees. Oropher unlocked the bathroom door and left the room calmly.

Thranduil had always been such a sweet boy. He was charming, delightful, beautiful. As Oropher meandered back through the halls of his luxurious home, he came to find his lovely wife stood in the kitchen waiting for him. Gently, he enveloped her in a hug, pressing a soft kiss to her temple and breathing in her calming scent.

“Let’s return to bed,” he mumbled into her silken hair as she nodded in silent agreement.


	2. Thranduil.

Aisles and aisles stretched as far as Thranduil could see. There were people rushing around, cutting each other up, apologising, gesturing for others to go first, moving quickly along swinging their plastic baskets or catching other’s ankles with their metal shopping carts. It had taken him a few moments to gather himself in his car, but now he was inside the supermarket… well… he did not feel as confident that his anxiety would disappear despite having a task to focus on. Unsteadily, he held one of the green shopping baskets in one hand, and the pudgy smaller hand of his son in the other.

In stark contrast to his father, Legolas was enamoured by the hustle and bustle of the supermarket. As they strolled through the aisles, he craned his head in every direction to catch glances of this item or that fruit – naming each piece as though challenging his knowledge. On occasion he would guess an item incorrectly, and when Thranduil would supply the correct answer, he would nod with a small frown upon his face as though frustrated that he did not know everything there was to know quite just yet. Thranduil found it highly endearing. His son was perhaps his proudest achievement, even though he had been conceived in a relationship that held no love within it. 

Legolas was Thranduil’s miniature. Although he had acquired the rounded face of his mother, this was perhaps the only outward feature that had not been supplied from his father. He had inherited his bright icy-blue eyes, and his hair – though only to his shoulders – was as sleek and white-blonde as his father’s. He even had the same slight point to the tips of his ears. Incredibly, after only a few moments of shopping, Thranduil was grateful that he had brought Legolas with him on his mission to the supermarket. The child’s game of testing himself on his food knowledge had worked to successfully distract Thranduil from the overwhelming amount of strangers in the cavernous space of the supermarket. 

Feeling relatively calm and level, Thranduil looked to the short list in his hand. Most of the items had already been placed in his basket, but one remained. 

_**Shower gel.**_

As Thranduil walked with Legolas into the final aisle of his shopping trip, his heart pounded furiously in his chest. The inevitable creep of anxiety began to crawl beneath his skin as he scanned what seemed like miles upon miles of different coloured plastic bottles. This was the aisle he had been dreading – the one he had deliberately left until last because he knew that his anxiety could peak any moment. Quite suddenly he was no longer ‘Thranduil the adult escorting his child around a store,’ but he could feel his transformation into ‘Thranduil the man with a recent diagnosis of post traumatic stress disorder.’

It felt like a muffled silence had descended down the aisle. Out of all of the brands and types on display, one particular brand of soap jumped out at him from the shelf. His anxiety peaked in a rush of adrenaline, as if he had just been scared at a haunted house on Halloween. There was a flood of uncomfortable saliva into his mouth, a momentary thought of gagging and retching as he struggled for breath on his father’s bathroom floor –

“Ada! Can we get this one?”

With a jolt, Thranduil looked over to Legolas. He was not sure when he’d let go of his son’s hand, however he was grateful for his son’s unintentional distraction. Released from the grip of his memories, Thranduil wandered further down the aisle to the stacks of shower gel, watching as Legolas wobbled on his tiptoes in an attempt to reach a particular bottle. Thranduil plucked it from the shelf, and Legolas’ eyes were alight with triumph.

“Did you want this particular one because it’s shaped like a pirate?”

Legolas grinned cheekily but did not confirm Thranduil’s correct suspicion. “I think it will smell nice.” 

Reluctantly, Thranduil turned the bottle over, dreading to see what scent was in the pirate-shaped bottle that Legolas so desperately wanted. His eyes scanned the ingredients, and he struggled for a moment to control his mind which was rushing at a million miles an hour. Thankfully, he breathed a small sigh of relief, it was strawberry scented. The muffled silence of his anxiety had lifted slightly, and Thranduil could now hear the steady buzz of the rest of the supermarket. 

A woman stood not too far behind Legolas, opening and closing numerous brightly coloured bottles of shower gel. Thranduil watched as her husband sneaked stealthily up the aisle until he was right behind her.

“Which one are you going to pick?”

The woman screamed at his presence, as he laughed heartily at her reaction. Thranduil did not laugh. In her terror, the woman had gripped tightly onto the bottle in her hand, and the fragrant liquid had been sprayed all over the aisle. Thranduil’s heart clenched uncomfortably in his chest. He could no longer hear their conversation. All he could smell was the sickening, overwhelming scent of lavender.

Quite suddenly he was back in his father’s roll-top bathtub. His head throbbed where he had been pushed forcefully into the water, his body sprawled half-in and half-out of the tub. The tap continued to steadily surround him with warm soapy water, however it did not manage to warm the icy feeling of fear that had settled in his stomach. He did not even have the energy to cry, though the thought did pass his mind once or twice. Instead his eyes were glazed and somewhere else, trying to forget the horrifying moment his father had chosen to expose him, despite the fact he was a young adult now and could legally do what he wished with his body. In a way, Thranduil was grateful that his father had not gone any further. That wasn’t to say he was out of the woods yet. Oropher had an unsettling tendency to change his mind.

The scent of lavender was overpowering. Eventually Thranduil managed to raise a shaky hand to turn off the water. His legs still hung limply over the side of the bath tub. His expensive jeans and underwear had fallen to his ankles. His shoes remained on too. Again, his shaking hands worked to remove each item of clothing. Oropher could return any moment, and Thranduil was admittedly terrified of the thought that he would see that his son was in the same position he’d been in when he’d left. No matter how much his head ached and his back hurt from being thrown in the bathtub; or how his knees and hands were grazed from the gravel; or his neck bruised from his father’s vice-like grip; his throat sore from gagging and his mouth tacky yet dry from the soap – Thranduil would not risk another scolding tonight. 

In a daze, he doused himself in the lavender-scented bath soap. His evening had gone so well up until he had made the stupid decision to return home. He should have listened to Bard when he had offered a place to stay. He should have known that his father would wait for him. He should have been savvy and played the innocent card the next morning – feigning illness or some other excuse to appeal to his father’s emotions. Why had he accepted Bard’s offer to drive him home? Not only that, but foolishly to the door of his house? 

Thranduil submerged his whole body underwater as if to avoid the shame. The water worked well to block out the world for a moment. All he could hear was the steady thrum of his heartbeat. He deserved this. He had basically waltzed into his father’s rage. On what planet did he think it would be ok to return so early in the morning? He blamed the high of being with Bard. It had been the first time Thranduil had ever gone all the way with him. 

They’d been dating secretly for a while. Thranduil knew that his father would have disapproved regardless of who he brought home, and he was certain that Oropher would hate Bard in his scruffy clothes and his painfully average car. Yet that did nothing to stop the ever-growing affection that Thranduil held for Bard. He was dating Bard’s kindness, his wonder at the small things… the way his eyes seemed to sparkle when they fell on Thranduil… He found Bard’s appearance kind of rugged and handsome. It was masculine. Appealing. Attractive.

Thranduil shuddered, though he wasn’t cold. The warm water could not stop the chill in his blood from the embarrassment he felt. His mind was a carousel of his father’s rages, flickering revolving images of all the ways he had disappointed, disobeyed and disgusted his father. The shame was suffocating. He wanted to die from it…

“Sir? Are you alright?”

The weight of a hand on his arm brought Thranduil reeling back into the supermarket. His breathing was erratic and he could feel from his puffy eyes and sodden cheeks that he had been crying. The smell of lavender continued to assault his senses. It made him feel dizzy. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, still dazed from his flashback. “I’m fine – thank you.”

In a hurry, Thranduil exited the aisle but he couldn’t get rid of the horrid smell of the lavender shower gel. The uncomfortable flood of adrenaline was making his hands unsteady as he quickly scanned his items, bagging them haphazardly in his haste to escape from the confines of the store. He was aware that he was taking in uneven gulps of air, trying desperately to stop the oncoming panic attack that was simmering just below the surface. It was about to bubble over.

Grabbing his bags, Thranduil raced from the store. He must have looked crazed and deluded. It felt like everyone’s eyes were upon him, even when he rushed across the carpark to the safety of his car. Shoving his items in the trunk, he wrenched open his car door, jumping inside and leaning his head on the steering wheel. He desperately tried to remember what his therapist had said at his first session. 

_Count your breaths. Relax. Breath deep and slow._

It took ten long minutes for Thranduil to fully fight his way back from the abyss of his panic. At that moment all he wanted was to be safe in his own house, miles away from places like the supermarket and their flashback-inducing triggers. Feeling thoroughly exhausted, Thranduil pulled his keys from his jacket pocket, turning on the ignition. The radio started playing quietly. Reluctantly he looked at himself in the rear view mirror – his face was still a little flushed, but at least the evidence of his tears had thankfully vanished. He adjusted the mirror back to its original position, his gaze landing on an empty child’s car seat.

_Legolas!_

“Fuck!” 

Like a crazed lioness, Thranduil ran straight back into the terrifyingly crowded supermarket, filled with all of his worst nightmares. How long had Legolas not been by his side? Eru – he was a horrible father! How could he have left the supermarket and almost driven away without realising he didn’t have his precious child with him? He searched the aisles frantically, even holding his breath when he passed the soap aisle where a member of staff was now cleaning the floor with a greying mop. 

The further he got into the store, the worse his thoughts became. What if someone had taken Legolas? He wouldn’t have even noticed because he was too busy selfishly wrapped up in his own worries and traumas and panic! What sort of father did that? Eru – what would his own father say if he discovered that he had left his grandson unattended in the middle of a store to care for his own needs? Thranduil shuddered. If word of this ever got to Oropher – no doubt there would be a call placed to social services. 

He had almost reached the final aisles when his heart stopped. Legolas stood alive, safe and unharmed in the kid’s toy section. He had a stuffed cuddly rhino lodged under one arm, and he was talking animatedly to a man with scruffy brown hair and his daughter. Thranduil strode towards them, relieved that he’d found his son before he could be abducted. 

“It’s ok, I’m sure we’ll find your-“ he heard the man say, before Legolas’ eyes fell on him.

“Ada!”

Legolas ran towards him on little legs, still clutching the toy rhino that he had plucked from one of the shelves. His fears allayed, Thranduil scooped his son up into a hug, resting him on his hip. Briefly he closed his eyes, comforted at the fact his momentary lapse in judgement hadn’t led to his son disappearing forever, Legolas’ little arms wrapped around his neck. 

“Thran?”

Dumbfounded, Thranduil opened his eyes. He knew the voice. He didn’t even need to see him. Nonetheless, Bard stood before him. He hadn’t changed so much over the years – his eyes were still warm and kind, and jacket was rugged, leather and masculine – just as Thranduil remembered him. There were a few improvements. For one, his facial hair had improved from his poor pubescent attempts at stubble, and he seemed to have gained some muscle since Thranduil had last seen him. Then again, Thranduil did not have much time to take in a last image of Bard before his father had thrown him to the gravel driveway outside of his house.

“Hi,” Thranduil replied lamely. His heart skipped in his chest.

“Tilda thinks this rhino’s name is Paul,” Legolas told him, unaware that Thranduil had just bumped into the only person he had ever loved. His son pushed the grey fluffy rhino into his line of vision. “I like Paul.”

“It’s a good name,” Tilda nodded, clutching at Bard’s hand. “Right, Da?”

“It’s a great name,” Bard replied with a grin, looking back to Thranduil. “We were just heading to the park so we better not hold you up – I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do.”

Thranduil was still in a state of shock that he had bumped into Bard after all of these years. It seemed strange that he had become a father in that time too. Was Tilda born into a relationship that was a sham? Or was Bard deeply in love with his wife? Thranduil’s eyes fell to the hand that was clutching at his daughter’s. He wore a silver wedding ring, but then again so did Thranduil and his relationship had been over emotionally before it had properly begun.

“Ada, can we go to the park too?” Legolas asked. “I wanna play with Tilda!”

Thranduil hesitated. “I think maybe Bard and Tilda want to go by themselves.”

“You’re welcome to join,” Bard interjected quickly. “We can always grab a coffee and go. I think Tilda would probably prefer that than playing with her slow Da, right?”

Tilda nodded unabashedly insulting her father. “You run really slowly.”

So the next thing Thranduil knew, he had somehow been roped into going to the park with his ex-boyfriend, who had seen him on possibly one of the worst and best day of his life. They grabbed a coffee from the chain inside the supermarket, and Thranduil bought Legolas the stuffed rhino on the basis that he had been so completely relieved to find him alive and not abducted by a stranger. In truth, it was his poor parental guilt that had gifted the new toy to Legolas. Yet, in the very least, it would serve as a permanent reminder to Thranduil to pay attention to his son, even when he was struggling with his PTSD and his overwhelming anxiety. 

For that reason, as he sat on the multicoloured bench beside Bard to watch Legolas and Tilda play on the jungle gym, he probably shouldn’t have been drinking coffee. His anxiety wouldn’t thank him for it later, but at least for now it comforted the unrest he was feeling at sitting alone with Bard for the first time in years. He was unsure of what to say. Where could they even begin? Thankfully it seemed that Bard had been thinking along the same wavelength.

“I’ll address the elephant in the room,” he started, leaning back into his seat. “I’m sorry I left you that night. I should have called the police.”

Thranduil’s heart clenched uneasily. He had wanted to avoid thinking about that night any further than he had already today. The problem with his flashbacks was that they were incredibly exhausting. He was surprised he’d agreed to come to the park at all, when the safety and comfort of his home was calling him, but he equally didn’t want to pass up this chance to speak with Bard for the first time in… well… forever. Who knows if he would be given the chance again?

“I doubt the police would have done anything,” Thranduil shrugged, fiddling with the rim of his coffee cup. “I don’t blame you.”

“Dare I ask what happened?”

Thranduil shook his head. “You don’t need to know.”

Bard nodded, and Thranduil took a quick glance in his direction. He was looking at Thranduil with a pitying expression in his warm hazel eyes. What Thranduil would have given to have fought back, rushed into the arms of the man beside him, and lived his life gazing into those gentle eyes. Instead he had been a coward. He had remained that way for years afterwards. He still was a coward to this day. After all this time, he continued to be terrified at the prospect of his father evaluating his life. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel totally comfortable in the park with Bard. He felt like any second his father would emerge from nowhere in particular. It felt like Oropher was always watching.

“You got married I see,” Bard smiled softly, gesturing towards the ring on Thranduil’s hand. “Legolas is adorable.”

“Thank you,” he looked to Legolas then, who was happily climbing the rope ladder with Tilda hot on his heels. “I noticed you are also married.”

“Widowed, actually,” Bard sighed.

Thranduil flushed in embarrassment. “Oh – I’m so sorry –“

“Don’t be,” Bard smiled then, resting a quick hand on Thranduil’s knee and squeezing slightly. The motion sent electric shocks through Thranduil’s being, but the touch didn’t last that long. “Rachel was amazing, but she – well, one day she found a lump in her breast just after Tilda had been born. I know you may think horribly of me, but I’m glad she’s gone. She’s no longer suffering, and the kids don’t have to see me struggling anymore either.”

“You have more than one?”

Bard laughed, sipping on his coffee. “Three in total, two girls and a boy. How about you? Just Legolas?”

Surprisingly, Thranduil found it rather endearing that Bard had managed to have a successful relationship and had loved his wife enough to produce three happy children. Legolas was a happy child, there was no denying that, but Thranduil continuously felt guilty that he had never managed to give him a brother or sister. Perhaps it was his own childhood as an only child that made him feel so bad regarding this. Nevertheless, it felt good to hear about Bard’s life, no matter how much it drastically reminded Thranduil that his entire one was a well-disguised lie.

“Just Legolas,” Thranduil eventually replied. “My wife and I – we don’t love each other.”

“What?” Bard asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Thranduil sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Just that. We don’t love each other. She sees another man behind my back – well, not _behind_ as such because I told her that I supported her decision.”

“That’s crazy,” Bard laughed, but the sound was hollow. “You’ve got to be joking.”

It was unbelievable when Thranduil said it all aloud. He knew that if he had been on the receiving end of such information, that he would have laughed in disbelief too. Yet, he and Elthien were residing in such a situation on a daily basis. She would go out and spend time with her new love, and Thranduil would look after Legolas with no ill feelings towards her. If anything, he felt an astonishing weight of guilt at having said vows to her that he knew he could not keep; had celebrated her pregnancy despite the fact conception was a drunken disappointment; and had introduced her to friends as his ‘wife’ knowing that they slept in separate beds and never looked upon each other in love.

“She deserves someone who loves her,” Thranduil tried to explain. “As I cannot, we came to an arrangement whereby she spends time with the one she loves and I look after Legolas. It works.”

Bard was still frowning in confusion. “But, why not get a divorce?”

To his own surprise, a burst of laughter bubbled up in Thranduil’s chest. “You already know the answer to that. I cannot divorce her, because it would be an embarrassment to my father.”

“You’ve got to be joking…”

“I don’t think you understand the level to which my father has been a helicopter-parent throughout my life,” Thranduil told him, swilling his coffee and willing the tears to stay at bay. It was like being in therapy all over again. “He has systematically controlled every decision I have ever made in my entire life. I honestly know that if it hadn’t been for the arrival of Legolas, I would have definitely ended it by now, because I hate living like this – in perpetual fear of his scathing judgement. He will know that I have met you today. Eru knows how but he will find out.”

Whilst it felt good to release all of the pent-up thoughts that were always floating around in his mind, Thranduil could understand how it all sounded like utter madness. The truth was that Oropher had orchestrated most of Thranduil’s life. He had picked his university and the subject of his degree in Law, even though this wouldn’t have been Thranduil’s choice. Oropher had introduced him to Elthien, who was a daughter of a work colleague, and had pried and poked and pressured until Thranduil had asked her on a date, a second date, a third… all the way up to engagement and even on their wedding day, just to make sure he went through with it all and wouldn’t bring shame upon his father. He had chosen the house they would live in, the car that Thranduil would drive, even the _school_ that Legolas was due to attend had been chosen by Oropher.

“Bloody hell, Thran,” Bard mumbled. “I mean – you can’t let him get away with this. You’re staying in a relationship you’re not happy in-“

“I am happy,” Thranduil interrupted automatically.

Bard sighed heavily. “No, you’re content and being content is not the same as being fulfilled. You’re not truly happy for fuck’s sake. You just told me you’d considered killing yourself.”

“That was before Legolas came along,” Thranduil reiterated. “I don’t feel that way as much now.”

“You’re a grown adult, Thran,” Bard reminded him, throwing his empty coffee cup easily in the trash can. “You should tell him to stop. How long are you planning on living like this for? When does it end? When he eventually dies?”

Knowing that his silence would give the answer, Thranduil remained quiet. Perhaps he had thought about waiting that long, but his father wouldn’t live forever. Was it such a bad plan?

“Oh my God, that is your plan, isn’t it?” Bard caught him by the elbow of his jacket. “Thran, please, you cannot keep up this charade because you’re worried what he will think. This is _your_ life. You only get one. Are you going to waste it because you’re worried what one person will think?”

“He will know that I’ve met you today, and I will be receiving some form of repercussion from this,” Thranduil warned him, his eyes locked on Bard’s hold on his jacket. “You don’t understand.”

At that moment, a rush of movement came up to them both – two little children running around, stopping just beside their parents. Tilda beamed up at her father, her eyes held the same warmth as Bard’s. 

“Da, did I run faster than Legolas?” she asked, but before Bard could reply his watch beeped with an alarm.

“Oh, looks like our time at the park is up, kid,” he replied sadly to her, as the two children began to whine in disappointment. “We’ll have to do it again sometime, if that’s ok with you, Thran?”

Thranduil thought for a while, his gaze falling to Legolas’ angelic face. It was clear that he had been having a great time playing with Tilda, and admittedly Thranduil had enjoyed speaking with Bard far more than he should have. Legolas was looking at him with those round, innocent eyes, and it broke his heart to consider declining simply because of Oropher. Legolas had made a friend, and Thranduil had vowed never to limit him in the same way that he had been controlled. Still, the more times that they met, the more likely his father was to hear about it…

“Ada please,” Legolas begged, his rhino hugged to his chest. “Me and Paul want to play with Tilda again.”

“Ok,” Thranduil nodded, “you twisted my arm.”

Legolas and Tilda screamed with joy, jumping around on their tiptoes and hugging. Bard grinned, offering out his phone to trade numbers. With his heart pounding and the feeling of butterflies in his stomach, Thranduil exchanged numbers with Bard and it felt bizarrely like the first time they had met. Plus, Legolas seemed overjoyed at seeing Tilda again, so how wrong could it be?

“Remember,” Bard told him, taking back his phone and handing back Thranduil’s in turn, “there’s nothing happening here that your father can disagree with. It’s just two guys, getting coffee – maybe donuts – sat watching their kids play in the park. You have nothing to worry about. It’s all above board.”

When they had said their goodbyes, and Thranduil had thoroughly thanked Bard for finding Legolas in the supermarket, he eventually started to drive home. Legolas was immediately asleep, exhausted from the play date, and at that Thranduil felt that Bard had been right. It was only a little play date. What was there to embarrass his father in that? Surely Oropher, if he ever found out, could not find fault in his grandson having a friend? 

Plus, Thranduil blushed at the thought, he couldn’t help but wish that things didn’t have to stay ‘above board.’ The thought of seeing Bard again after all these years, as a gorgeous doting father, had Thranduil wishing that things could become far, far below board, no matter how much his father may kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the response to this fic so far! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It’s getting a little more Barduil, which I completely dig. Oh, and little Legolas always deserves a toy.
> 
> If you’ve got the time to leave some kudos or give me some feedback I’d be very grateful.


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